Amber Sunshine

The Stamp River, above Stamp Falls

Amber sunshine calls me

down the road

through drifting leaves

of saffron, umber, gold.

One might be

inclined to think

with this

the whole story

already

has been

told.

But the smell of

burning leaves

carries me back

to bygone days:

crisp winter

afternoons,

mix of lowering gray

and purple haze,

the rising of the moon,

and I'm walking

home from school

inside the falling dark,

pungent breath of smoke,

leaf-rot, dry bark,

in the dead-leaf-scented air.

Lights glow in all the windows

for homes are everywhere.

I always am outside

a wanderer looking in,

and this is where

my search for home

begins.

In darkening dusky yards

men would be raking,

as hungry dogs

barked their dinners in,

I shivering in my coat

that's blue and thin,

hollow and hungry,

not expecting

to be fed,

my spirit

flying

looking for

a place to land.

Only now

do I begin to

understand

my pilgrimage-

and how

surely,

if obscurely,

I was led.

Outside the warmth

of other peoples' lives,

stoically trudging

through the crackle and the gloom,

I walked past

all the perfect picket fences,

up the stairs,

opened the door

into the stale and empty rooms.

From there to here,

so many autumn fires,

so many roads less traveled,

houses I wrapped around me

like a shell.

Only three were homes,

out of them all.

Still, every fall

leaf-smoke smell

wafting gently

on the air

transports me to Kelowna.

For moments I am aware

that once again

I am fourteen

and such a sad

and lonely pilgrim

there.

COUGAR ANNIE

[This poem is about Ada Annie-Rae Arthur, who came to Clayoquot Sound in the early 1900's, settling on rough land near Hesquiaht Harbour, which she worked her entire life to tame and cultivate. She is one of the notable characters of the area, having survived four husbands, personally killed 72 cougar, and raising eleven children.  The flower, above, is on her property. The photograph is likely included in the book Cougar Annie's Garden, by Margaret Horsfield. The garden is now maintained by the Temperate Rainforest Field Study Centre.

The poem was inspired by a quotation by David Whyte:


"I pull the bow out into the wide sea,
paddle dripping towards darkness,
and enter again
the quiet."]


June 2001


In the fading light,
I can just make out
the black shapes of the trees,
tall sentinels
that darkly watch me pass,
roots tangled thickly
down the ancient banks
right to the water's edge,
the shore held fast.


Dip and lift,
the only sound the water's lick,
paddle moving cleanly
through the spreading flow,
the low call of a sleepy owl,
winglift of swooping heron
in mid-flight.
Earth falls away,
above all a starshine glow,
inverted bowl of sky at night
protects me as I go.


Around the point, I drift into Cow Bay
where the big grays are feeding
in a pod.
A whoosh, a whoosh, a whoosh
a vast arched back
a fluke
and then the mystical descent,
their breath sounds like
the hidden voice
of God.


Dip of oar,
scattered droplets
silvered by the moon,
to the head
of Hesquiaht Harbour
home so soon
to farm and garden
mine now, only mine:
husbands and children
spilled like the sands of time,
homestead clawed
from tangled bush,
hardscrabble years
in which
I tamed this once wild patch
of ancient pine.


Now no one here but me,
no one to see:
the vibrant blooms
that spread out everywhere,
unexpected garden
from unyielding soil,
an unexpected life
of endless toil,
I now reflect upon.
I planted flowers
and blooming bushes
all those years,
nourished with laughter,
watered well with tears,
they flourished longer
than leggy children,
grown and so swiftly gone.
Seventy years upon this place,
from young bride
to homesteader/hermit
no man stayed long beside.














At ninety
still a hard glint
in my eyes
a-glistening,
my face bird-like, alert,
intent and listening,
hands cradling the rifle,
head cocked - hush!-
ears tuned for the sound
of cougar in the bush.

72 cougar I killed
over the years,
mice and chickens'
necks I snapped
without a thought.
Four husbands
lived beside me
then they died;
eleven children
brought
into the world,
eleven gone.
What mattered most
this place, the life
that living in it
wrought.



All gone now,
but this place meant
for no other.
The blooms turn
their sweet faces up
to meet me
like a lover.

The fog parts;
my canoe slips
in between
the veil that hides
from this world
the unseen.
These ghostly shores
I shall forever roam.
I'm Cougar Annie and I'm
heading Home.